Prophecy in Praxis
by NYCBound
Summary: Delphine Cormier is a mystery. I want to get inside her head and see if I can understand how she got stuck in the middle of Project Leda and if shades of "dark-Delphine" were present all along through Seasons 1 and 2. Fear. Agency. Choice. Science. Passion. Is she a hero? A villain? A prophet? I guess, we'll see. Canon-ish. Cophine centric, obvs. Rating is M for the inevitable.
1. Chapter 1

I promise that despite the start here which must address Leekie, Delphine's relationship with Cosima and her personal history are absolutely the focus of this story.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 ** _"_** ** _If he could pretend to respect you in order to get you to bed, you could pretend to love him, to sink your heels into his skull on your way over his head."_**

* * *

The night before you were scheduled to meet Cosima, Aldous was particularly fast. You appreciated his brevity, and furthermore that he wasn't in the mood to talk. He wilted beneath you characteristically, endorphin induced grin collapsing his head to the starched hotel pillow below. He was clammy and falling asleep before you even retreated. This time, gladly, you didn't have to break a sweat. Looking down at his awkwardly still face, lacking animation entirely, you almost pitied him, as you were clearly getting more out of this situation than you were putting in. You chuckled back a laugh while his breathing deepened into a light snore. What a fool he was, to think you could care for him. Or were you the fool to think that he could not tell that you didn't?

You redressed, collected your things, checked your phone, and considered your quick decision to jet. You could have stayed. He would have preferred that you did, continue the illusion that your 'relationship' could possibly be more than a business 'arrangement', but he knew better than to ask you to keep overnight company. You would never agree to the suggestion, or the direct request actually. But you had your marching orders for the following day. You had your script, your 'transcript', Aldous even weighed in on what you would wear and how you might respond to what he called 324B21's 'inevitable curiosity'. He'd grown so obsessed with appointing you the San Franciscan's new monitor that he personally escorted you to Minnesota, re-enrolled you in a PhD program you'd already completed, just so you could 'to make contact' right away.

Yet you wish that he hadn't tagged along. You were thrilled about the opportunity to take a break from the pressure and politics of DYAD's Toronto facility, even if that meant back-stepping to academia. In fact, part of the draw was the welcome return to normalcy. Had you not been recruited by DYAD right out of University yourself, you would be teaching by now. Your dreams of a research inspired professorship had been completely redirected by DYAD and Neolution's promise of fast-tracked instant-gratification science that seemed too good to be believable, but came with a paycheck too large to ignore. Yet somehow even after you'd paid back your graduate school loans and ensured that your financial future was secure, your stasis with DYAD persisted. Sometimes you wonder if you are the scientist or the subject, yourself.

Working in such a high intensity environment as DYAD, used to be thrilling, inspiring, but now it feels like standing in a hurricane most of the time. The hours are all consuming, the projects, more product, than science, based, and the people as cold and unfeeling as they seem conniving and mysterious. At first Aldous was the exception. He was so brilliant, welcoming, warm even. You fell for his brain and his charismatic manner because he played to your every weakness. Your lust for knowledge, your empathetic nature, your love of pure medicine as an expression of human kindness. He fueled your pathological need to know more. Always more. He let you believe that DYAD was letting you in on something bigger. He honored your intellectual gifts and work ethic and made you feel special, feel wanted. To be respected for your mind and skills was something you fought long and hard for in a world populated with so few women like yourself. You fell into his trap like a child reaching for candy from a menacing stranger.

Thus it was a soul-crushing manipulation when Aldous made then the inevitable play for your body too. Saying "no" would cost you your climb. Saying "yes" would continue to open doors. Saying nothing? You split the difference and proceeded with caution. If he could pretend to respect you in order to get you to bed, you could pretend to love him, to sink your heels into his skull on your way over his head.

Aldous tethered you to himself so others could not claim you. He was protective, possessive and personally invasive, but he kept you separated from much of the chaos at DYAD. Furthermore, he served you the specific science you longed for on a silver platter. Despite the compromising position you'd find yourself in a few nights a week, you had what you wanted, or so you thought. As a child you dutifully planned to study hard enough and with the right people, so that your contributions to science, would serve the greater good, perhaps help solve at least a few puzzles of modern medicine, and make a difference in the world. Yet somehow that idealistic little girl has ended up trading sex for career advancement in an inescapable corporate machine?

The longer you know Aldous Leekie, the more you can see the schemes materialize behind his distant eyes. Just last week, he made a new move, whilst you were planning your "pick up" in Minnesota. He'd been oddly sentimental as of late, perhaps even showing chinks in his armor. But when he whispered in your ear whilst you humored his ungentlemanly demand for a lap dance, what he obviously considered it romantic, and you took it for humiliation. No amount of "Je vais vous manquez tellement, mon amour" husked from a whisky soaked tongue, in a roughly-stubbled mouth, could persuade you otherwise. When you did not reciprocate, and dismounted in disgust, he was obviously insulted, but managed to justify your apathy as anxiety about the pending connection with your first live subject from Project Leda. "You have no need to be afraid of her, Delphine," he said, as he relieved himself into a tissue, since you were clearly not going to do it for him. "She may be brilliant, but she's no match for you."

Perhaps that's why he jumped on the idea of you shadowing the scientist from San Francisco in the first place. Aldous perhaps believed that you were so cold yourself, that unlike Paul, or Donnie, or Sammy even, you would not get so emotionally involved with your subject that you could loose your objectivity as a monitor. If you clearly had no intention of falling for him, the very face of DYAD, you could certainly keep an icy watch on his target without complication. Or so you both foolishly thought. Because neither of you could fully consider the variable that was 324B21, herself, because neither of you had been so lucky to meet her. But that would all change tomorrow.

Still standing in a sterile hotel room staring at Aldous's flaccid form curling into itself in the fetal position under a single sheet, you feel the chill in your chest. This 'work' was slowly breaking your heart, breaking your spirit, breaking you down. When you remember your first wondrous glimpse through a microscope, to a world unseen, a world unknown, a world of unlimited potential, your icy tears swell for the little girl you've so obviously betrayed.

Fastening your coat, then taking a moment to reapply your lipstick and fix your hair in the mirror by the exit, and you can almost see your childhood curiosity urging you out the door. It was time to do right by tiny Delphine with the gangly legs and spirited smile. Your mind races for a cigarette. You look back at the bed, only undone right under his naked body. Even the bed lacks passion, three out of four hospital corners, intact. You can't help but smile at your pending victory. Your entanglements with Aldous Leekie served his ego and your ambition. Being close to him got you closer to the science. But being close to him frustratingly pushed you further from yourself. He played you like a pawn in a long form battle of wits. But your growing self-awareness only fuels the desire, to out wit, out maneuver, out play him, and all of DYAD actually. This chapter of your narrative is officially over. Tomorrow is a promise of far better things to come.

The University of Minnesota is a welcome shift. There, at least you can resume your own identity, even if it is with DYAD's agenda and money, in your pocket. A chance to start over is an unexpected blessing where you'll be surrounded by optimism and hope and hopefully people who love the work more than themselves. But reinventing yourself with Leekie breathing down your neck is not your favorite part of the deal – at all. It is time to go. You'll pay for your own room. Take your own shower. Sleep in your own bed. Reclaiming your own biology from his grasp feels like a vindication of sorts. There is never enough time in the day for you to stop pursuing knowledge with your most impassioned, yet delicate, heart and you do not want to concede another minute. You open the door, cross the threshold and practically strut your knee-high boots down the hall.

You secure your own room on the other side of the hotel and quickly peel off the costume. You shower, scrub yourself clean of his prints, shave and exfoliate yourself down to a practically new skin. Shedding dead cells is like shedding him. And agreeing to 'monitor' 324B21, personally, is your ticket out. You've finally convinced Aldous that appointing you to the position is his idea, which of course pleases him to no end, but it also frees you from having to pretend to be pleased BY him, which pleases you to no end, indeed.

You pull on your most comfortable cotton pajamas and curl into the pristine pile of pillows and sheets. You can feel your heart, your mind, your body, soften at the thought – you're free. Almost. So close to free that you can taste it in your dreams. The open window of time it might take to lure 324B21 back to Toronto is indefinite and that is the greatest gift of all. You have never been more ready for a task than this one.

You let the scene play out in your imagination as planned. You know exactly what she looks like already. 324B21. You will get yourself to the lab where she works before her shift begins. Cosima. You will casually strike up conversation. 324B21. If that doesn't work, you leave the decoy transcript behind. Cosima will follow. You know this. You trust this. But your knowledge of 324B21 is mathematical at best. It is geometric, technical, and data based from pages and pictures from other subjects in the study. You can articulate off hand her precise height, weight, dimensions and features with a very slim margin of error. You are that good, that cocky, that you naively believed you can shadow this subject, Cosima, a living, breathing, brilliant, woman, and charm your way into her life and report back without consequence. You could do unto her as Leekie to you? You could. You're sure of it.

Would it make you a better scientist?

Probably not.

Would it make you a better person?

Probably not.

Can it bring you back to yourself?

Quite, possibly.

* * *

"Je vais vous manquez tellement, mon amour" – I will miss you so much, my love


	2. Chapter 2

And on to the lab my friends...

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"...you just listen to the words that fall from her wide grin, try to follow the swirl of her hands, the arch of her eyebrows and the wiggle in her steps while you answer her polite inquiries..."**_

* * *

In the morning you're well rested, excited, dressed in your own clothes and painting your eyelids gold when your phone first buzzes beside you. Aldous is all business, gratefully, and texts yet another round of instructions about your scheduled 'meeting'. Nothing he has to say is new. He's just anxious. You simply reply, "Yes. Of course" and carry on with your face. You're careful to only put mascara on the top set of lashes, just in case summoning tears becomes necessary. No one wants to be left with dark streaks on their cheeks, even if it is to catch a scientist, you muse. But when you think about the fact that you're setting a trap and you're actually the bait, your empty stomach clenches in disgust. But 324B21 isn't an ominous target like Aldous. Quite the contrary, she, like the rest of the Leda subjects, is anything but.

324B21's last monitor failed to deliver, you know that much. But what did Emmi know of the science? She was a civilian. She had no idea what was at stake and from what Aldous confided in you, she was more obsessed with her subject's sex drive than her loyalty to report data back to DYAD. She did offer however, one helpful suggestion before she disappeared. Emmi said, "If all else fails while you're trying to get Cosima's attention, try puppy dog eyes and tears. She simply cannot resist saving the day."

Last week you even practiced what it would take to force yourself to cry. You thought it would be more difficult. You even did a little research to see how to make it look natural. But what you found was almost comical. Like pulling out eye drops, or an onion was an option? You had to rely on your own history, your own memory and heart to elicit the vulnerability necessary to weep on cue. Given your journey to the present, you had plenty of memories to choose from that easily welled your eyes with tears.

As you review the map of campus, your script, and your transcript, one last time, you insist that the plan will work. Your mother's maiden name is your alias. You can't blunder that if 324B21 asks. The data on your transcript is legit, so if she asks, there are no lies to tell. All things considered your task is simple, make a new friend, earn her trust. Carry on. A reasonable and attainable goal for today.

As you exit the hotel you're not surprised to see Aldous waiting in the lobby to watch you depart. Tipping his head to you, to approve of your dress, your smile, your perhaps too confident gait, you suppose. But you don't stop for him. Just a brief wave, as if to assure him that the mission has begun. What's shocking however, is as you saunter deeper and deeper onto campus your eyes water excessively. As if just thinking about crying earlier, flipped a switch that you cannot turn off. Is it nerves, or performance anxiety, or remorse? Or fear? You're not sure, but you have to actually stop and pull yourself together before you enter the lab. Friendly connection first. Tears only if necessary. Get it together Cormier, come on.

Once settled in the lab you busy yourself with some fabricated homework for a class you're not actually enrolled in – and you can't help but laugh. You never considered yourself much of an actor. You've performed in one play in the entirety of your life and that was a holiday pageant when you were eleven. You were a tree. Shocking. Cormier means tree actually. An apple type pear tree, a rare European tree. Oh dear, you must be anxious if the free associations in your head are jumping back to grandpa at the piano talking about the Cormier trees and the songs your grandmother sang…

Now music was something else entirely. Playing music was a passion that almost rivaled science and agriculture back home, especially in your family. In some ways being a musician yourself, absolutely complimented your obsession with genetic compositions as if the pages and pages you'd played on piano could become an organism you could study. As if reading strata after strata of DNA in this random textbook that you grabbed in this lab, was like reading stanza after stanza of notes on the page, at your beloved piano abroad. If Delphine, the pianist, can champion the most complex of symphonies, Delphine, the scientist, certainly could champion the study of transgenetic biology – including but not limited to that of the beautiful girl adorably pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose across the room.

Seeing Cosima for the first time rattles the runaway train inside your head to a stand still. You feel your mouth drop open and have to consciously reunite your lower jaw with the top; less you draw the absolute wrong kind of attention to yourself. For a brief moment you make eye contact and she smiles as she settles herself, and a steel brief case, at her station. She swings a lab coat over her slim shoulders and it makes the twists of her hair swirl around her head like a crown. Her eyes smile. Wide and luminous behind the lenses of her cat eye frames, she's almost cartoon-like in her uniqueness – nothing like any of the other subject's photos you've seen – and at the same time inexplicably real.

Pushing the textbook aside, you immediately try to capture some of what you've already seen on the pages before you. But she lets out an exasperated sigh and clicks her tongue against her teeth and you simply cannot help but stay focused on how she moves. 324B21 pushes her glasses onto the top of her head and adjusts the bright blue gloves snapped over her tiny hands. You're desperately trying not to stare as she looks at a few slides and moves data from one page to another, but you're failing, miserably. You want to memorize every detail of her, especially while she cannot necessarily see you. The chunky bracelets on her agile wrists. Her beautiful skin, fair, yet olive. The eyeliner. How on earth does she do that – to her self?. Her hair. It is dreadlocks? Or braids? Or something else all together? It's neat and beautifully wrapped into a ponytail, but it is so long it still falls to the middle of her back. You must be squinting to see and she catches your eyes again and shyly focuses elsewhere. Did she just blush a little bit? Possibly.

The ring of your phone launches you out of your detailed observations and back to the reality of your agenda. It's Aldous, of course, wanting an immediate status update and out of panic you answer the call before you can simply decline and excuse yourself for forgetting to turn the ringer off. Instead you hear him rattle off a list of inquiries faster than you can respond and the tears start to immediately crest on your lower lashes, embarrassment, frustration and shame completely overtaking your task.

Hastily you jump back into role and instead of giving yourself up and harshly chastising Leekie for interrupting your 'research', you characterize him the ex-boyfriend left behind in Paris and shut him down in hastily whispered French. You can feel her eyes deconstructing your every move. Despite his interruption, and your firm dismissal, Leekie's harsh response earns your phone slammed to the table dramatically, and your notes shoved into your bag. Just the very thought of his implicit accusation, that you couldn't handle this task after all, propels you from the table so fast, you almost forget to plant the transcript. Damn him. Why couldn't he just leave you to do your job? The humiliating tears sting on your cheeks as you extract yourself from Cosima's slack jawed gaze. She almost followed you to the door. You saw the impulse flicker in her eyes as you apologized. She didn't speak, but she will come after you. You know it. Emmi was right.

As you make your way from the lab the tears splatter your cheeks with frustration. There was no need to fabricate your cry, at all. Aldous managed to take care of that for you, which is infuriating enough to inspire a genuine sob and the need to just stop and wipe your face. The irony is not lost on you as you pause in the glass-lined hall to compose yourself, and wait.

It doesn't take long before you see Consima's tiny frame advancing in the reflection on the glass wall ahead. But you don't turn until she actually touches your arm and whispers, "Hey," carefully offering back your transcript. Only then, do you turn back to meet her gaze with weepy appreciation and an easily accepted apology. Her presence is like a warm breeze of empathy wrapping itself around your entire body. She immediately confesses to taking the bait, and reading your grades, and you'd love to confess to setting the trap. But you can't, so you just listen to the words that fall from her wide grin, try to follow the swirl of her hands, the arch of her eyebrows and the wiggle in her steps while you answer her polite inquiries.

You confirm the fake boyfriend, the break up. Your majors. Overlapping interests. Her eyeteeth catch on her tongue when she smiles. You feel your cheeks warm to her subtle laughter and the way her legs cross and she rocks from foot to foot when she speaks.

She sounds American without the cliché American accent. She doesn't drawl as much as she lilts. She hangs on to the consonants a little longer than the vowels. Words tumble out of her teeth like spinning whirls of color. It is difficult NOT to smile in front of Cosima, her energy is so present and so bright it is as if the woman practically vibrates. In fact, you stopped crying almost as soon as you heard her voice.

You extend your hand to formally introduce yourself, "Delphine."

She meets your palm with the clap of a horizontal high five, but doesn't let go.

"Cosima." she says, her cheeks blooming two shades pinker, you think.

"Enchanté," you reply, simply not wanting to relinquish the warmth of her palm.

"Enchante," she repeats, the French clumsy in her mouth, her hips shifting her weight to and from her center of gravity as she speaks.

Aldous was not kidding when he suspected you'd get along, however you're not so sure this is what he had in mind. You're glad that your cheeks are no doubt pink and tear-stained already, otherwise she could absolutely see you blush to her touch.

It is like Cosima can see through your every truth and every lie, and in this moment, you're completely okay with that.


	3. Chapter 3

Cosima, so much game. Delphine? Not so much.

Welcome to the library.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"She recognizes you immediately, makes no response, and promptly returns to the fierce conversation she's having with a tiny hot pink phone wedged between her chin and her collarbone."**_

* * *

Dyad is probably funding the entirety of The University of Minnesota Graduate School of Biological Sciences in exchange for a secure a Phd student placement for you, complete with poorly furnished graduate student housing on campus. Especially since you didn't exactly apply and your present credentials are more substantial than many of your professors'. As part of the arrangement each of them was instructed to send you a syllabus and audio recording of all lectures. They believe you're some kind of recluse who fears large crowds, but is otherwise brilliant. You go to the scheduled labs, so you can use them, but otherwise submit the work digitally – which Aldous has an intern complete, no doubt. Thus your time is free to observe your real subject and conduct your mandated research from within a comfortable laissez faire existence of a University Student. Which basically means you're bored and you feel like a stalker.

Though stalking Cosima is not a terrible task when you let yourself daydream on the interesting data map of her life that you've managed to observe in just a few days. She's absolutely a creature of habit. She wakes earlier than most, which means you have to get up earlier than her, and she likes to walk. Even if the weather is inclement, she will walk from one end of the campus to the other and completely ignore any other means of transportation. She lives alone, in a graduate student studio, in one of the buildings far cooler and more centrally located than your own. You wish you could smack Leekie for that one. He has all the strings to pull and he couldn't get your studio in the same building?

Still Cosima's flat isn't frequented by many, just a few friends, which she apparently keeps at an arm's length. A tall nerdy looking boy, Scott, you think, came by, who is her lab partner and was actually in the lab the day you met. Also a woman who looked as if she might have been a professor, as she was older by at least a decade, came for dinner once. She was very. Um. Deliberate.

But Cosima's more introverted than you expected given the warm response to your melt down last week. She spends most of her time on her own. She works out in the morning, then to the library, then to the lab, like clock work. She often doesn't really interact with anyone until she meets Scott well into the day. Also she drinks a lot of tea. Like seriously, a lot of tea.

As do you, which is convenient. So you manage to stage an almost meeting by 'studying' in her favorite coffee and tea lounge and anticipate her post gym visit. You catch her eye above your book and try to wave while she waits in the cue. She recognizes you immediately, makes no response, and promptly returns to the fierce conversation she's having with a tiny hot pink phone wedged between her chin and her collarbone. But when she turns back after she's paid for her drink you make eye contact again and she does a double take, half smiles, and bolts for the door, spiced chai in hand. You'll try again another day but damn she moves very swiftly for someone with such a tiny stride.

Sinking back into your notes, you expand your running list of data. Even after the gym, Cosima prefers heels to sneakers, sweaters to blazers, rings and bracelets to earrings and necklaces. She's so colorful, though, whimsical even, and you're utterly transfixed by the majesty of her hair. Yes, cultural assimilation infuriates you in every way, as it is just disrespectful and insensitive. Yet, when you stared at Cosima's mane and tried to judge her for it, you couldn't. You catch yourself wanting to touch it and twirl her locks in your fingers, actually. At least until you can understand how they work. You've seen 'dread locks' before and hers are not quite the same. Cosima's dreads are more twists than braids or actual, dread dreads, you think. They are small enough to swing like hair, and be braided into piles, or hang long down her back. But they're certainly not the waxed, ratted, or beaded dreads you've seen on the Caucasian kids who don't bathe back in Toronto.

There's a small subculture, mostly teens there, with matted hair and gage plugs in near-torn earlobes. They either have no idea that the artifice they apply to their own bodies carries so much history they will never fully understand, or they don't care. Both of which makes your skin crawl. It makes you think of Neolution, trying to give people the power to evolve into their best self on their own terms and you wonder how many "customers" might eventually demand the same physical characteristics that their ancestors murdered or were murdered for. It makes your head spin, your heart hurt. The power of choice should be liberating, but choice in the hands of ignorance? You're not so sure.

But Cosima's hair. You can't bring yourself to judge it, when you're still so in awe of it, really. The way it swings behind her when she gesticulates. The way her widow's peek makes a heart of her face. You can't remember if any of the other Leda subjects you've seen in photos had such a pronounced point on their hairline. Hummm. You want so much to talk to Comsima about it, ask her questions, dig into her mystery, but first you need to get her to talk to you again which is proving trickier than you anticipated.

Aldous is returning to Toronto in just a few days and you must deliver Cosima to his "Talk" on Neolution tomorrow afternoon. Waiting for chance meetings isn't working. Passively observing isn't connecting.

Tomorrow, the library.

* * *

She really is like clockwork in her routine, the order at least. The order is the same, the window of time? Not so much. But she arrives in the stacks shortly after mid morning chai. She spots you sitting back on your heels as you flip through a random journal between two rows of archaic data that was probably bound in the seventies. You placed yourself as far back from the main entrance as you could, simply so you wouldn't miss her come in. Perhaps that wasn't the smartest choice. For a moment you think she can see right through your charade. No one studying immunology would choose to be in this section of the library, unless of course they were hoping to casually bump into Cosima in her favorite and habitual study spot. Damn it. You're almost embarrassed by how obvious, and desperate you must appear so you take your journal and return to your bag, a notebook, some materials from the class you 'went' to this morning and proceed to assume study face. And by study face, you think your most lonely, alluring and 'please come rescue me from my own intelligence' face.

You turn the pages of the journal with a flippant arrogance that makes them rustle loudly, and perhaps highlight with a little too much pressure on the page. You tap your pen to your teeth and bite the tip of the cover, glancing up to see her wide eyes like laser pointers focused on your mouth. It is a matter of seconds before she saunters up to your table, the hunger in her approach, less than subtle. You're immediately surprised by how incredibly attractive you feel when her smile unfurls and your name falls from her lips like a bomb, "Hey, Delphine."

So this is what flirting with a woman feels like? You're impressed that your kinesthetic response is an appropriate and organic reply. Your hands are restless, your cheeks flushing; somehow the air is unfortunately removed from your throat. Maybe it's just your nerves. But casually inviting Cosima to Leekie's talk is a simple goal, yet somehow the words struggle to take shape in your mouth, like her presence sitting on the table before you, renders you dumb, childlike, or at least a really lousy liar.

But she's so adorably charming, and disarming, and despite her leg swinging from her perch like a bit of child herself, she's incredible power over the silence. Her gaze is intense, romantic even, as she scans you up and down and weighs her skepticism about Neolution against her desire to commit to your company. The moments waiting for her reply are insufferable. But once, she agrees to meet you, all tension dispels with your grin and her gaze. You're so happy that she said yes, that if you hadn't thought better of it, you might have stood to kiss her right then and there.

You can feel the brightness in your own eyes swell and consciously play down your enthusiasm. She tilts her head to the side and gestures an apology to return to her things. She kind of floats with a slight swing in her hips when she steps away, not once looking back until she casually sits facing you, dropping her nose to her books. For another forty-five minutes you watch her from the other side of the aisle. Biting her nails, spinning her rings, playing with her hair while she reads. Occasionally she looks up to catch you staring. It makes her giggle, look the other way, and bite her lip. When you catch her staring at you, moments later, you swing your hair behind your ear and scratch your neck focusing the other direction. Your mother taught you that trick. If you want to keep someone's attention, she said, keep your neck long and your eyes elsewhere. Worked like a charm in bars full of men, and apparently in a library with one very specific woman as well.

You can't even attempt to conceal your smile.


	4. Chapter 4

Freaky Leekies, indeed.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"Her very existence thrills you to the point of loosing your focus, your breath and just talking to her leads to an unexpected tension in your lap and the unavoidable, honest to god, retraction of tissue in your baby pink lace knickers that gives you up."**_

* * *

The adrenaline rush of earning Cosima's word is such an unexpected high. She could have said no after all, but still you could have more aggressively courted her, you would have if you had too. Luckily all it took was a boat neck sweater, cream-colored skinny fit chords and some knee-high boots. Damn it felt good to not be wearing a lab coat.

You shoot a quick text to Aldous and confirm that you're heading over to the lecture and hope Cosima's not too far behind. You pack up your things from your worktable in the stacks and smile at her before you go. Sadly, she's on her phone again and her face tenses like crumpled paper as she husks inaudible mumbles to whoever's on other end. You wonder if it is the older professor who had dinner at her flat last week, or maybe her family in San Francisco, or was she maybe seeing someone? Someone here in Minnesota? Had someone gotten under her skin already? Had someone else beaten you to the center of her attention? Ugh.

You're shocked by how jealous you are at the thought, actually. Subconsciously you find your hands pulling at the hem of your sweater and biting the inside of your cheeks and lips has actually started to become so intrusive a habit that it occasionally hurts. It's been less than a week since you've met, and technically though it is your job as intended monitor, to woo and engage Cosima in an intimate, and eventually dependent, relationship, you never considered your own psychological investment in the subject. In fact, you were chosen for your objectivity and ability to remain dethatched, compartmentalized, and methodical about your work and your subject's role in it. Yet you simply did not account for her charm, her effortless beauty, the fire in her eyes and the warmth of her presence in your physical plane. No, Aldous did not warn you about those things at all. Perhaps he didn't even notice them, or worse, he did, and didn't consider that you could.

The sound of Cosima's skepticism lingers in your throat like the after burn of shots poured too quickly and difficult choices made in haste. She catches your gaze over the noise from the hot pink mobile on her shoulder and manages a brief wave and a silent mouthed "see you later" as she takes the cue to pack up her own things and get going. For a moment you consider waiting, simply wanting to speak with her more, to keep her company on the walk across campus to the lecture hall, but she must see your hesitation and motions her little bejeweled fingers for you to go. She shoos you with her fingertips and waves you on. Your steps accelerate, and much to your surprise, so does your heart.

Walking into the cold late morning sun you wish there was some way to meter your progress with Cosima. There's no way to know what works, what doesn't, or how well your 'acting' is going. She was so obviously trying to figure you out when you spoke in the library. You felt busted again, caught. Like she could see through your shy hesitations and planned invitations, accidental meetings and hopeful looks. You need her to trust you. You have to get her to WANT to share vital information with you. Your job depends on it. Your career depends on it. Keeping you separated from Leekie depends on it and that is the greatest motivator thus far.

When Leekie shared 324B21's file and you read about Emmi it was fairly obvious why you were a strong contender to be her new monitor. Yes Cosima preferred the company of women, and yes you present as a tangible target. Here your physical beauty again upstages your brains and at first you thought it repugnant to even suggest, but then you were fascinated by the statistical reality that one in approximately every ten people is likely to be gay. And there she was. The one in tenish of the living tracked Leda subjects, and you're offered the opportunity to work on "on the ground" he said, "in the very thick of the project."

The thinly veiled implication is that being a monitor means getting so close to the science that you might actually be expected to have sex with it. With your subject. 324B21. With HER. With petitely perfect Cosima Niehaus from San Francisco with the hippy academic upbringing near dark sandy beaches. She with the majestic hair and impish grin. She who is smart enough to know a faker. She who might have already armed herself with enough doubt to call your bluff.

You'd like to think that the fact that you're not a lesbian is inconsequential. But that's not entirely possible when the game your playing involves far more than data collection. Intimacy between women is different. You know this clinically. You did your research. You asked friends, read on the topic extensively, tried to even consider changing your physical presentation to make yourself more attractive to her, but it all just seemed so foreign. You simplified your jewelry and make up. You chose your clothing very carefully. You tried to be as simultaneously "in the know" and "adorably naïve" as possible so that she would believe your advances. And the next thing you know you are flirting with a woman and are sincerely impressed when she flirts back. Still you unceremoniously judge yourself at every turn. You should have trimmed your nails.

Taking long strides through the snow covered quad, you consider that courting Cosima could be the most insane thing you've ever agreed too, but then you remember the first time Aldous slid his long hand across the small of your back, in the lab no less, and the fact that you did not immediately stop him. Sure, he approached others in a similarly unsavory manor. You'd been warned by the few other attractive women in the small research community, but when others threatened lawsuits, you almost welcomed the attention and the potential power it gave you to advance in the field.

Now, Cosima, her smile, her brain. Her very existence thrills you to the point of loosing your focus, your breath and just talking to her leads to an unexpected tension in your lap and the unavoidable, honest to god, retraction of tissue in your baby pink lace knickers that gives you up. You may not know much about how to navigate a woman's body, other than your own, but you know for certain that your field of research is about to explode into a brave new world of touch, taste and sound. Maybe you're not acting that much at all.

Aldous practically drags you into the catering entrance when you arrive in the meeting hall. He pulls you by the forearms and whispers tight and wet in your ear. He saved seats for you both. He's planning on addressing her directly in the presentation. You're to put her in the outside seat, it is better lit, he said, and he wants her to feel special in his presence. He's mouth lingers too close to your face or too long. You excuse yourself to the loo and go. You wash him off of your face like a stain.

Some time, and some wine, later the arrival of Cosima's red coat pushes your heart near into your mouth. Her name crawls from your throat almost desperately, as Aldous stalled the lecture for her arrival and the costumed groupies with their tacky wigs and colored contacts are absolutely getting restless. You take her hand and pull her towards you and her smile expands at your touch. The cold from outside lingers in the air around her swirling like its own tiny ecosystem. You want nothing more than to climb inside of it and extinguish the chill. The lights go dim. You hear the onset of his microphone. Cosima briefly squeezes your hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Platonic? Yea, no.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"He was wrong. It's not that Cosima is no match for you; perhaps you're no match for Cosima."**_

* * *

The lighting set up for this "Talk" is impressive. There were certainly no costs spared in celebrating Dr. Aldous Leekie and his Neolution manifesto. The university students look on slack-jawed and impressed, the Freekie Leekies, in their tacky wigs and silly contact lenses cheer like they're at a rock show. There isn't much of an academic turn out and thus it is difficult to tell who is swept up in the rhetoric, bells and whistles employed for dramatic affect, and who is actually impressed by the science.

Yet it is painfully obvious that Cosima is not buying what Aldous is selling, no matter how manipulative the sound effects. She laughs as if on cue. She smiles in a strained and appropriate manner. You grab her attention briefly enough before she returns to her assessment of the events and people in the room. She's still judging. You can see it. You can feel it, as her body tenses close to yours and Aldous continues to deliver his "performance" almost exclusively to Cosima's wide and eager eyes.

Still, her intensity and curiosity threads the small distance between you. Her knees bounce in her assigned aisle seat and you cannot tell if she's restless because she thinks Neolution is "fringy", and Leekie's far too desperate for her attention, or if she's anxious because she's on a date, is this a date? Could it be counted as a date? You wrap your fingers around hers and still her knee with your steady palm. Absolutely. Yes. It could be.

She doesn't even glance back to your eyes waiting to meet hers, but she smiles gently and doesn't let go of your hand either. In fact she flips it, lets her thumb stroke your open palm and then weaves your log fingers between her own. Her rings are cold against your clammy skin and you're awkwardly aware that she can feel your nerves right there in your hand. Again, your body gives you up.

Your mind attempts to suppress, distill, ignore, the very tactile and kinesthetic truth that despite your "job" you're ridiculously attracted to Cosima and not just her phosphorescent mind. There is a charisma and kindness about her. A cocky self-assured swagger that draws you into her attention and inspires you to demand hers. Watching her eyes reflect the blue lights moving above the stage is captivating. You can hear Aldous stammer on through the speech you helped compose, but the words arrive to your eardrum as through a cloud of distraction. A cloud of Cosima. Perhaps you are already in over your head. You withdraw your hand to your own lap.

Aldous challenges Cosima directly. "Your glasses, for example, make you somewhat, um.. Platonic…" She warms to his attention. Her eyes close, as if touched by the memory of the ancient Greek. She glances back to you and smiles, perhaps suggesting that her interest in you is anything BUT platonic? You know that you're blushing and can feel your lower belly wince. Then she cracks a joke to counter Leekie's hubris. "Maybe I'll just start with basic Lasik," she retorts earning laughter from the crowd and a pained smile from the speaker. She certainly isn't going to make your job easy. Not if Aldous still expects you to wrangle her back to Toronto right away. But then again, the more she resists the longer you'll get to spend with her in Minnesota, which frankly is much more appealing anyway.

Without looking back to your lap she reaches back and grasps your fingers into her own. If this meeting wasn't a date before, it most certainly is now. Ironically Aldous meets your eyes and smiles triumphantly at the end of his presentation. He thinks he has Cosima hooked on the line, but with the smooth skin of her palm pressed gently to your own, you're not so sure, at all.

She drags you by the hand to the reception in the lobby and it's remarkable how someone of such a delicate stature can make such long strides. You almost trip over yourself trying to keep up, never mind keep cool, and finally stop to grab two glasses of wine. By time you turn around she's already put her coat on and is heading for the main exit. You get the wine glass in her hand and offer your best pout. You almost see her chest surge in resignation to your charm. At least you're starting to get a clearer read on what works to make her reconsider.

"You don't actually believe in all this eugenic hocus-pocus?" she says to her wine, peeking up over her glasses meeting your eyes softly above the lens. "No, no, no" you offer, desperately, trying to keep her engaged, but seeing her slip away. "Neolution is not eugenical." "So what is it? Is it utopian?" Her fingers gesture around the glass with precision. Her stillness and command is disarming and authoritative without being rude. You find yourself somewhat speechless under her scrutiny. "It's Neo-topian, really?" you finally offer, catching Leekie's eye behind you. He was wrong. It's not that Cosima is no match for you; perhaps you're no match for Cosima. Seeing the opening you entice her to "meet" him.

She doesn't follow your lead. But she doesn't leave either. You feel her eyes follow the length of your body and turn back to find her gaze traveling swiftly from the seat of your trousers up to your pleading eyes. At least you can finally confirm what you've long hoped. Even if she's not so into the science, she's totally into you and that can only work in your favor. You urge her on with a shy grin and offer her skepticism to Aldous's company. He's thrilled.

You play the naïve star-struck admirer, not even believing your own posturing, and as expected Cosima immediately calls "Bullshit" and asserts her intellect on Leekie's pop culture whimsy. Every pitch he serves, she counters with an articulate and pointed quip. Yet he still invites her to Dyad, almost begging for her approval, which seems to only steel her distrust. It's too much too soon and you know it. He was supposed to meet her today, that's it.

If only Aldous would give you the all clear, and go. The talk is over. They've met. He can leave now and leave you to your work. You know you're never going to get into her apartment, with him breathing down your neck and pushing Dyad on Cosima directly. He can have information, or he can have her, trying for both at the same time is proving an impossible task when she sees right through the manipulation. She may not know what is going on, but she knows something is going on. But still, she does not leave your side and for that you're so grateful. You just cannot believe he played the Dyad card so quickly. Damn it, he gives you no time.

"You're such a brat" is the best you can do with your mind spinning through the last few minutes of game changes. She accepts the insult as a challenge, and willingly it seems, as she giggles, helps herself to two bottles of wine and makes her way towards the door. Her wide grin demands that you follow and you do, catching Leekie's smug nod and grimace as you scamper to meet Cosima's hurried exit.

She thrusts a bottle into your flustered hands and tucks another into her red coat, moving swiftly past security, while you somehow manage to get your arms in your sleeves, juggling your bag, stolen wine and the snow in the process. You run after her into the courtyard to find the cold biting now that the sun is setting. She quickly grabs your open hand and pulls. Your laughter echoes off the stone arches above your bouncing heads only to dissolve into ragged breath and awkward smiles. Steeling bikes? Now? In the snow? No. You beg off claiming a class. But the last thirty seconds were the most fun you've had in the last ten years. Owning that realization stops you dead in your tracks in the middle of the quad.

You look down into her big eyes and for a moment you're simultaneously weak in the knees and profoundly ashamed. You want so much to kiss her, to tunnel away with stolen wine and her brilliant company and ignore every promise you've made to Aldous, to the Dyad Institute, to your family in France that depend on your salary. You want nothing more than to just disappear in her naivety and see where this chemistry takes you. To see if she might actually make YOU happy in a way no one ever could before. But you can't and you don't so you stall and light a cigarette and still she is charming and engaging and the conversation isn't about science or Neolution or work, it is just easy banter and sparks flying and the world around you feels like it stops in her watchful stare.

For a moment you again want to touch her hair. She promises to get you stoned and it sounds like a brilliant idea. But not now. Not today. Not this afternoon. Too much too soon will undermine your plans. "Leave them wanting more," your mother always said, advising you not to "give away the milk" until they "bought the cow". You smile at the memory of your teenaged self, wishing you could tell your mother why you didn't bother worrying about sex much anyway. It always was easy to be prissy when you weren't terribly interested in what all the boys had to offer in the first place.

Cosima's eyes sparkle behind her glasses and you watch yourself smoking in the reflections on the lens. She's memorizing every detail of your face, the shape of your lips around the exhalation, the slouch in your shoulders as you lean into the space around her smile. Leekie doesn't seem to impress her at all, but the more distantly and aloof you seem to play your cards, the more intoxicated she becomes with your presence. Its like the idea of you is more enticing that you could possibly be and despite your wanting her just as much, if not more, stepping away will only make the seduction that much more lovely.

"It's really nice to make a friend, in the brave new world" you offer, forcing yourself to bid her farewell. The word "friend" visibly hurts her. She's crestfallen, disappointed, and exactly where you need her to be. So you take pause, shelving your self-loathing long enough to kiss her cheeks and let the warmth of her face transfer to your chilly lips. You hover a bit too long, land your mouth a bit too close to hers, feel her breath on your neck like a summer breeze in an otherwise arctic chill.

"Okay" she says, breath short, after you surprise her by kissing both cheeks.

"Ciao" you whisper to her blush.

"Bye" she stammers, "Ciao" she repeats. She's so flustered and just so lovely. So lovely. Cosima. 324B21. Cosima, you'll see her again soon.

You're not five minutes from parting before your phone buzzes in your pocket.

A new text from Cosima opens with a slide of your cold thumb.

"Thank you for dragging me to see Freaky Leekie. I enjoyed the company far more than the lecture, obvs. But let me take you out for a drink or something? Tomorrow, maybe?"

Then another.

"Just to say thanks, friend."

You smile at the screen and consider an immediate reply, then drop the phone back into your pocket.

You'll accept her invitation later, of course, but for now, you just want to skip or dance or run back to your flat and write up whatever paper work this day requires for documentation, because the sooner you can finish that, the sooner the two of you will finally be left on your own.


	6. Chapter 6

That Dress, Damn

Thank you to the sweet reviewers that are staying with this story. Tis going to be a long haul, but I think it's worth it to make sense of season 3. Oh Delphine. Oh dear sweet, foolish, Delphine. This is a shorty, I know. But I just had to get this scene out of the way. More tomorrow, promise.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 ** _"If only life was as uncomplicated as two graduate students with a mutual crush worth exploring. If only."_**

* * *

"Merci, Cosima." you text back before you unclasp your bracelet, remove the pins from your hair, and peel off your mask with make up remover. You leave your phone on the edge of the sink as you step out of your clothes and watch the spangles of your cocktail dress pool on the floor around your ankles. You wonder if Cosima's out, or if she's alone, or if she's scraping the touch of someone else from her skin as you are.

"Merci for what?" she quickly texts in reply. She must be home. Or at least somewhere with her phone in her hands.

"For your invitation, for tomorrow. I'd love to."

"Rad. Okay, I'll text when I'm out of the lab. Have good sleeps? Kay? Too much crime for you in one day."

Your smile almost breaks into a chuckle, but you remember that you are alone in your tiny bathroom and swallow it whole. Before you met Cosima, Leekie failed to make you feel much, but tonight, he made you feel disgusting. You turn the shower on and force the hot water to flood the room with steam. It's not hot enough yet. No where near it. No amount of scalding was going to purge you of this overwhelming wrenching sensation in your very core. How many more times, you ask yourself. How many more? When will you deliver enough for him to let you go? You asked. Tonight you asked for this to be the last time. You dressed for it. You wanted to ask to dissolve your entanglement with a kind, parting gift. But his only response?

"Confirm what 324B21 knows, Delphine, and we'll see."

After, you excused yourself to the loo and vomited, brushed your teeth with the hotel toothbrush and paste offered in a basket, adjusted your dress and left.

He wasn't happy about that and frankly, you didn't much care. After all, he had to pack.

You managed to not check your phone to see if Cosima wrote again until you were wrinkled and dewy, tearstained, tired and pulling yourself from the tub. Finally toweled off and tucked into clean linens and cozy cotton pants and a tank, you sink into the refuge of your shitty grad flat with welcome relief. If only life was as uncomplicated as two graduate students with a mutual crush worth exploring. If only.

The text box from Cosima is static. She didn't write again. But then again, you also did not reply. "I can't wait to see you again" you type into the text box and delete before hitting send. "It will be fun. I can't wait." You delete again. "Cosima, ma chère?" Your thumb hovers over the release of the words into the ethers and waits. Waiting.

"I finished this cheap stolen wine without you. P.S. Lame" she writes. You imagine her red wine stained mouth, her glistening eyes. Your lips curl under your teeth.

Quickly you delete your previous almost text. "Me too" you safely reply, fairly certain you can feel her impish grin from cross campus. "Goodnight" you finish, placing your phone on the nightstand. But it almost immediately lights up. "Bonne nuit" says Cosima's text and you feel a little rattle in your chest. Damn she's good, you think. Donc très très bon.


	7. Chapter 7

I'll Pick You Up

Writing a daily chapter now that school has started is harder than I thought it would be. I'm sorry! Thanks for your patience kind friends! I'm still totally invested, don't worry. I'm still going to keep going!

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"You want to touch everything in the apartment. Including her."**_

* * *

You wake us smiling for the first time in weeks. You feel silly about it really. Just thinking about Cosima's smile, her impulsive invitation to grand theft cycle, her adorable giggle, makes your cheeks pink and your eyes squint together. Maybe an attempt to suppress what you've long suspected but could never quite face? Covering your own head with a pillow to scream (or is it laugh?) you wonder if you've always been a little less heterosexual than not, but why now? Why this woman? Why when you're supposed to be working for – not obsessing over – her, albeit in a long-winded way.

You know the Leda project is surrounded by secrecy and, more recently, urgency, because some European subjects are showing troubling physical symptoms and some are even spiraling into rapid decline. That is not counting the ones who just disappeared. DYAD is tracking subjects in North America desperately. So far none are presenting questionable medical data, but the American scientist could frankly un-puzzle the whole mess if she was self-aware and had the motivation to do so.

As an immunologist you can see her as both a fellow scientist and the science itself, thus your fascination with her narrative is only matched, if not exceeded, by the apparent physical pull you feel when she's with you. And it's not even about being "turned on". It is beyond that. Yes, she's attractive enough, obviously. They all are. All of the Leda subjects have the same interesting features, bright eyes, wide cheek bones, that slight under bite that makes for such a broad beautiful smile. But somehow on Cosima they're interpreted in a language that only you want to speak. That only you can speak. The ease with which your hands meet and thread, your desire to walk closer to her tiny muscular frame, the impulse desire to wrap your arm around her waist, breathe the air closest to her mouth. You almost kissed her in the courtyard. She almost kissed you. Almost. Your stomach churns like a crushing schoolgirl, you suppose, because frankly when you were a schoolgirl, the crushes you thought you were having never felt quite like this.

Pulling your hair up over your head into a knot you let your mind wonder. You replay the last few days in slow motion while you undress. As you step out of your pants your phone buzzes from its place beside you. Seeing Cosima's name appear on the screen makes you jump as if she herself was seeing you standing there in just your lace knickers. You yelp before you crack up, dropping the phone to your toes before you can even read the message. You're such a mess. Cosima would not be impressed, at all.

"Morning, sunshine. Meet me at Hotel Ivy, later?"

"A hotel? Really?" you quickly reply, looping your thumb over your own bare navel.

Then your heart leaps into your throat. Aldous is checking out of the Hotel Ivy tomorrow. The thought of crossing paths with him is simultaneously disgusting and thrilling.

She texts again, "They have a sexy bar in the hotel, we're not checking in. Promise."

You're thrilled at this serendipitous turn of luck. If Cosima can make even tiny baby steps toward Leekie's will it will only take some of the pressure off your back. But sincerely, you just want to not think about him for a few hours and be with HER. She's calming and you would love a little calm right now.

"Really? Great. I had no idea. What time?" you reply.

"7:00? Meet me?" she asks.

"I'll come pick you up."

"Wow. Cool. Okay. 6:30 then."

Never in your life did you ever consider that being chivalrous would offer such a wonderful bloom of self confidence and excitement. You offered to pick her up and you just might pick up flowers damn it. Well, maybe not. That's maybe giving away a bit much. Okay. Too soon. Delphine, get yourself together.

Later you find yourself a block from Cosima's building twenty minutes early. It is so cold you must have speed walked across campus so you find your hands shaking in your pockets as you approach the conical turret on Cosima's building. You feigned ignorance and asked for directions when she texted the address. Even these little deceits make your stomach wrench behind your belt buckle, but you have to focus on the big picture and the moment at the same time and at the present time you just want your hands to still.

She greets you at her apartment door in a black slip with a plunging neckline and every curve revealed. You're immediately taken aback by how delicate, yet how muscular, she is and how hyper feminine her apartment feels. It is warm and layered in fabrics, just like she is most of the time. It is almost too much stimuli to process. Trying to observe the space while your eyes are inevitably drawn to her lush cleavage, her hips, her neck is nearly impossible. You're fairly sure your mouth is hanging open when she talks to you about the time or something. Your breath becomes shallow and that now familiar pull in your lower body reminds you, yet again, that this is so much more than business.

She steps back into the corner where her bed is tucked and you take a moment to assess the rest of her studio. She's furnished it to the hilt, for graduate school housing at least, and you're so happy you didn't recommend that she came to your empty, colorless and sterile space full of university provided furniture and bare essentials. You could stay lost in her world of plush colors indefinitely if she let you. Even her clutter is fascinating. You want to touch everything in the apartment. Including her.

As you reach out to touch the lava lamp on her desk instead, you feel small hands on your hips.

"Sorry I'm slower than molasses in January. You good?"

"Of course, yes. You ready? Wow, I love this bead work," you say turning to face her and reaching to touch her collar.

"Thanks, yea. Me too. I mean, I like it that's why I got it. Maroon is a good color on me. And Um, on your pants. Yea, I really like your pants" she says, awkwardly addressing your rear as you turn towards the door. "We should, like, totally go and I should like totally stop talking" she finishes, near pushing you out the exit with her arm out stretched on your back.

She cannot see your blush, or your smile, but they're substantial and you're substantially grateful that she's behind you while you gasp. Knowing Aldous will casually make an appearance on what could promise to be an incredible date now feels like the worst decision you ever made. But again, you have to trust that you're playing him more than he's playing you and giving him just a little bit of what he ultimately wants will free you to this swirling excitement that has curled her arm into the crook of your bent elbow and hustles her steps to keep up with your long stride. You slow down your steps a bit and squeeze her hand. She looks up at you and smiles with her lips protectively covering her chattering teeth. The cold is brutal tonight but with Cosima walking lock step at your side, you cannot help but glow.


	8. Chapter 8

Drinks.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"It is remarkable how fast she shape shifts from smolderingly attractive to impishly cute."**_

* * *

Arriving at the Ivy with Cosima on your arm turns the head of the doorman. He's greeted you before, with Aldous, and the glimmer of confusion in his eyes dissolves into a cocky smile of judgment as you pass. You feel his gaze burn the back of your head as Cosima's grip on your arm tightens.

"What was that?" she says, looking up into your pursed lips and sharp brow.

"I don't know," you bluff, "He, um, I think he thinks he knows me, or something?"

"Or he'd like to" she snarks, implying something sexual leaning softly into your ear. When you don't reply, she glares over your shoulder burning holes through his stiff uniformed jacket.

Cosima's indirect compliment spreads a warm buzz through your core. The strut in both of your steps accelerates toward the bar.

You choose to be seated at a table instead of the bar itself, so you can watch the concierge over the glass wall facing the main entry. The doorman's eyes catch yours peeking down and he's clearly sizing you up and taunting you with his smarmy grin.

You choose instead to focus your attention to the beautiful woman before you. Cosima prattles a bit about what she's working on in her classes, her hands swirling in complex patterns between you. She's falling victim to nervous energy and the malaise of shoptalk but it is hard for you to keep up since you haven't really met many of the professors you're supposed to be in classes with and you're just so damn distracted by her hair and the twinkle in her eyes and the general date-like ambiance of the mood lighting in the bar and the gentle clink and clack of silverware and glasses all around. When the wine she ordered for both of you arrives, you offer a toast, raising your glass to meet hers. She chuckles at the formality of the gesture. Your eyes lock as you each take your first sip of smooth merlot.

"I really like this place," you offer. "Thank you for the invite."

"Well you're a classy lady" she responds with a smirk. "Something tells me, Delphine doesn't do dive bars."

"What is a dive bar?" you inquire, genuinely perplexed by the name.

"You know, a bar that is divvy, a little gritty. Where the bikers hang out and it always smells like beer, even when its clean, and there's always a killer bartender with really hot tattoos."

"Ah, okay, like the oldest pub in town. Where the locals go."

"Right. The oldest pub, with the coolest people."

"I like those bars too. But this place is…. Sometimes you need fancy, sometimes, how did you say, divvy?"

Her finger traces the rim of her glass and she bites her lower lip for a moment, nodding.

"Yes. Did I choose right for tonight?" she asks sheepishly. It is remarkable how fast she shape shifts from smolderingly attractive to impishly cute.

"Of course." You have to look away. If you keep looking at her, you just might say too much.

She takes a large sip of wine and leans back in her chair. Her smile is more intoxicating than what little remains in your glass.

She's biting back something, a question? A statement? Maybe a confession? The tension between you is palpable and that's exciting, but you have to remember that Aldous will arrive before you drain your second glass. If he's anything, he's punctual.

"So, um. What happened with the boyfriend?" she says, precisely when you first see Leekie's bald crown cross through the main entry.

"I should have left him, when I left Paris" you speak to your glass, not wanting her to peer into your fabrication when she peels the truth from your eyes.

"Umm yea, cold turkey, that's the only way to go" Cosima offers with a chuckle.

"Cold turkey, what is that?"

Again, Cosima translates, "Oh it uh means abruptly" and you realize you could listen to her unpack American idioms for hours without being frustrated with the chunkiness of the language at all.

"Oh yes, that's what I should have, you know, he was supposed to follow next month." Stop. Stop Delphine. Stop adding details you won't remember, as the kind of ex in question is actually quite present and currently gazing up from the lobby trying to catch your eye. Your sharp inhale betrays your distraction. "I changed my mind."

"Oh my god, you're the asshole" Cosmina says. She's impressed. And excited. Her eyes light up with a more mischievous grin. The heart she thought was broken, perhaps is not so bruised. If only you could just tell her the truth, right now. Instead, you drag out her pun and declaratively take the blame "um hum, I am the cold turkey asshole."

She's satisfied with your response. The laughter is easy. Threads of trust volley back and forth over glasses of wine. There's a moment of stillness as she places her glass back on the table, when you see her hand reach as if to descend again into your own. She looks you in the eye, to ask permission perhaps, and before you can willingly accept you hear the front desk below "Doctor Leekie, so nice to see you again…" and return to the previously determined script you must.

"Should we invite him?"

Her physical response to the question is more than enough of an answer. She stretches the space between you to its greatest possible distance mocking your feigned attention on Leekie with dejected arrogance. She slaps her tiny hands on the table to articulate her distain. "You're single now," she near snarls, albeit adorably, resigning her "thank you friend date" to your ulterior agenda. "And his mind is sexy" she teases, despite your deflection that he's "too old". As you walk down to greet Aldous and "invite" him to join you both for a drink, it occurs to you that she knows. Cosima absolutely knows that you're lying. She knows that he's after her attention, and if his suspicions are correct she knows about Alison and Beth and maybe even the European subjects too. She's going to destroy you, you think. Cosima's going to break your heart.

Aldous wastes no time making a play for Cosima's intellect by flattering her endlessly and inviting her directly to DYAD. His impatience will be his ruin, you think, watching barbs fly like tennis balls between them. She's already researching cloning techniques. She's playing him, cheekily, at his own game. But his lack of grace is an insult to her intelligence and when he suggests that the two of you, two woman who hardly know each other, move to Toronto together to work for him, presumably before either of you has even finished your PhDs, you're certain that she sees right through his act and knows far more than she's letting on.

"You have a unique perspective Cosima" Aldous begs. "Please, you could be on the cover of Scientific American!" He offers the suggestion as if the idea was a prize, and then she drives a nail directly into the coffin of his argument.

"Scientific American doesn't put scientists on the cover" she says, subtextually admitting that she knows that she's "the science" while simultaneously demanding that she will not be treated as such. Your heart immediately explodes with pride, desire, and genuine terror. Cosima. She is breathtaking.

"Well, every rule needs to be broken" Aldous concedes, a weak cover up, to which Comsima only half smiles in order to keep things polite. You nod gently as both of their eyes turn to you taking a sip from your third glass. Your silence is met with an urgent glance from Cosima though. Her foot gently wraps around your ankle and pulls your leg closer to her own. She relaxes her hands into her lap and casually drops one on your knee. While Aldous babbles on about his newest studies and how he vaguely imagines both of you participating Cosima scrapes her nail gently over the ridges of the top stitched side steam of your pants.

When Aldous turns to look over his shoulder to look for a noise he heard from the bar, she looks directly to you and mouths, "Let's go. I'm so over this" pointing to Leekie as he turns again to face you.

"Thank you so much for taking the time to chat with us Dr. Leekie," you say, standing and offering him your hand. He attempts to turn it, as if to kiss it, but you refuse to rotate your wrist so that he can do so. His teeth clench as he recognizes the rejection, but he does in turn stand and excuse himself for the night. You both wave as he decends the stairs to the lobby and disappears into the lift.

There is a moment or two of silence before Cosima stands and smoothes the billows of her blouse with her palms before swinging her red coat up over her shoulders and quickly buttoning up to go. Before you can finish doing the same, she steps up to you and takes care of the top two buttons for you. "Thank you," she says; brushing her hands from your shoulders to your elbows, "I couldn't take any more of his awkward narcissism. I mean seriously, has there every been anyone who has ever loved their own voice more than Aldous Leekie?"

"Celine Dion!" you say, shattering her obvious disappoint with Leekie's interruption, into an earnest chuckle and smile. "I'm sorry," you continue "I didn't mean to spoil our night. He's just so exciting to me, and I thought you would get excited too."

"Sokay" she coos, bending her elbow for you to take and as you thread your hand into the open space she's holding for you, you almost lean into her shoulder to kiss her cheek, but you stop.

"We should head back to campus anyway."

"Yes. Can I walk you home?" you ask, once you're both freezing and outside the hotel.

"Only if you come in to thaw and let me call you a cab, okay?"

"Okay." You're standing toe to toe, your breath mixing in a cloud between you.

"We should go then."

"Yes."

"Okay"

She's the first to step towards home. Tucked tightly beside her, you follow.

You feel your eyes swell and your hips rock in response to her genuine gratitude. You become aware of your heart beat slamming itself around your ribcage. Walking tightly wound arm in arm, you think you just might hear Cosima's doing the same.


	9. Chapter 9

Night Cap.

I'm so loving this fic, but it seems to not be getting that much traffic. Those of you who have read and reviewed I so appreciate the support! Even if we have an audience of five I'm going to keep going. Delphine fascinates me and I can't wait to see what surfaces next. Thanks for staying with me!

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"Cosima huffs condensation out of her nose like a little feisty dragon before she chatters out a jumble of words..."**_

* * *

The walk back to Cosima's flat doesn't take long, but it does take you farther and farther from you own which is clear on the other side of campus. She's quiet, save the gentle huff and pull of her breath in the brutal cold. Somehow campus is colder than Canada and for the first time since you arrived in Minnesota you miss Toronto fiercely. Except you'd like to bring Cosima back with you – not for Leekie, but for yourself.

The way her hips fit just under the curve of your own when you walk nuzzled together makes you smile, as if she's a tiny Lego piece designed to snap into yours. Walking beside a man always felt like you were being overprotected, or worse, presented. Square and boney hips poked at your soft side if they pulled too tightly. You made it a point to prefer holding hands, keeping a safe distance, as walking arm in arm could actually physically hurt. You always thought you were fiercely independent; perhaps you were just waking beside the wrong hips.

Cosima's body, even in her coat, aligns with yours so easily and you can't be close enough to her it seems. You love that her head tucks between your collarbone and shoulder like it belongs there. Cosima's not that small, only three or four inches separate you in height, but really your curves match, as do her unique rhythm and your internal clock. She scampers, you saunter. She's the syncopated baseline to your steady groove. You casually kiss the top of her head and she glances up. Her eyes are dewy when she looks at you and it isn't just the wine. Her dreaded crown is warm, but seriously, how is neither of you wearing a hat?

Cosima's presence may be elfin and somewhat delicate, but her words are weapons presented in bouquets of flowers, bombs in a breadbasket. HER brain is the sexiest and most subversively attractive you've ever encountered. Watching Cosima take on Aldous point for point tonight confirmed the quick, and seemingly inevitable, realization that not only did she have a much bigger understanding of Project Leda than you expected, but you would not have to be persuaded to have sex with Cosima, at all. God damn it, even if you hadn't a clue when, or how, you were certain that you wanted to. And soon.

The question really is not if, but when, and furthermore why? Aldous probably expects that you would as a means to gain her trust, and access to information that he wants, however feeling her hand slide from your hip to the curve of your lower back only increases your desire to ignore his demands altogether and completely drop off the grid and into her arms. You can feel the synapse of longing and curiosity ricochet between you in tactile sparks. Cosima huffs condensation out of her nose like a little feisty dragon before she chatters out a jumble of words, "I'm sorry, it's so cold, and so far. I bet it's never this cold in Paris."

"Non, it's not" you reply, squeezing her a little tighter, "but look, we're home."

"We?" she says, breaking free from the arm that held her lock step to your side, and chuckling her way up the front step of the building.

"Well, you, I'm sorry. The little words are often the ones I mix up."

Turning back to you, she thinks you're blushing because your English can be awkward. You're not. You step forward and for a moment you're eye to eye. Her chilly hand cradles your cheek.

"No, Delphine, stop. It's cute. You're cute. Like incredibly, cute, actually."

There's a moment of stillness where you can just about see the wheels spin in her head, kiss you good bye now? Invite you in? Wasn't there a promise of a cab back to your flat? You see an open door, you take it.

"Cute enough to come in and use the loo, and maybe have a cup of tea before I go?" You are sure to bat your eyelashes a bit more than you normally would. She could still be a little angry. You can't quite tell. She was obviously put off by Aldous's invasion of the evening, and furthermore annoyed enough to want to up and leave. But, she did soften on the way back, despite the cold. She is actively weighing the pros and cons of inviting you up.

"Of course," she exhales softly taking both of your hands and pulling you toward the door to the building. "Just give me a sec to dig out my keys."

Upon returning to her cozy apartment, you make a beeline to the bathroom where you wash your hands, fix your hair, take care of business and discover, that your suspicions are correct. Your body has made a decision, with or without your blessing; your body is craving her touch, if not demanding it. It smells like the sex you're not having just standing at the sink buttoning your pants and closing your belt and it's a little funny. It has to be. If you didn't laugh at the irony of this moment you'd cry your eyes out.

You exit the restroom back on script. DYAD. Tonight went well in that Aldous made his pitch. Tonight was difficult because of her resistance. You can ease some of her skepticism. You know you can, you have to. When you turn the corner, under the plush curtains that surround Cosima's bed, she's is pouring herself another glass of wine in the kitchenette. She only had two to your three and you're envious. Your head is a little light – is it the woman or the wine – and you were only half kidding about the tea. Then you see that there's already a kettle on the hotplate and box of tea selections open on the counter. It is getting harder and harder to not just give in. To her kindness, her smile, her curves.

You steel your arms on your hips and bring things back to task, "Working with Dr. Leekie could be the opportunity of a life time," you suggest, as if it isn't the most obvious thing in the world. His DYAD card is in her had, you know she's considering it. Perhaps things weren't as far gone as you feared?

"I know, I know" she says, shaking her head, distracted, her attention focused on her own feet. Then you. Then her wine. Then your eyes. Then her hands, the floor. Your torso. Your mouth. Perhaps she is more intoxicated that you originally thought.

"Then why are you being so coy?" Your words are firm, demanding. The harshest tone she's heard from you yet. It makes her eyes expand behind the lenses in her frames.

"Don't you think," she takes a ragged inhale, her head pulls back, a decision is made and continues, "it's time, we admit what this is really about?"

Her advance is calculated and deliberate. As much as you've daydreamed of this moment it still renders you awkwardly still and slack jawed. Her eyes draw the doubt as much as the demand from the very center of your person. Her warm hand reaches your neck and shoulder moments before her incredibly soft, delicately sweet and subtly wet mouth makes contact with your own. The small of your back immediately sparks like a child pushed something metal into a live socket. The air in the room seems to rush up and above like a windstorm pulling through the space between you. Trying to memorize every part of this moment your eyes remain open to see hers softly close as she relaxes into your anything but relaxed response.

As gently as possible you take her sweet face into your hands and bend a bit to meet her terrified eyes, "I'm… I.." you try to speak, you instinctively nod, but your heart is lodged firmly in your throat rendering you quite literally dumb. You want to say, "I'm not who you think I am", "I'm not sure", or "I'm not sure what to even do", or "I'm going to stay, if that's okay?" but instead you see the crestfallen and embarrassed Cosima backtracking faster than you can restore your own lungs to full function. "I have to go," you finally bluster, in a panic, backing up with prattling reassurances "It's okay, bye" as you duck out of the door.

She calls after you. You hear your name "Delphine" falling softy from her defeated lips. The guilt of leaving wracks you down the stairs and out the door and as you throw your coat over your shoulders and pull your cell phone from the pocket. You can hear what sounds like a muffled shout from behind. You hate that you've already hurt her. You've already blown it. You've already ask for too much and delivered too little. To him, of her. And this time it's not just someone one else that is hurting. This time you've managed to hurt yourself.


	10. Chapter 10

Jump.

Sorry for the delay, back to school eeek! Thank you for the kind reviews. Sincerely.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"…** **despite the science, Cosima is living magic. Living magic with a sweet touch and the most intoxicating mind."**_

* * *

You can't even remember much of the walk home from Cosima's apartment. Your body may have been physically steeled to the cold, but from the inside, warmth fueled a brisk pace across campus. You took advantage of the full extension of your legs pounding through brick paths and sidewalks, side stepping patches of ice and haphazard snow. With Cosima by your side you could never keep this pace, and maybe that is completely okay. Each step moved you farther and farther from Aldous. Farther from his calculated agenda, farther from his touch.

The night sky opens itself for your observation and through the condensation of your own breath you can make out patterns in the dark. Bright pops of starlight that string together, like pearl and crystal necklaces dangled through the vast expanse above the city. Streetlights cower in their brilliance. You feel that way standing in the company of genius sometimes. Unaware, or unpretentious, or unwilling to embrace your own light, perhaps? But Cosima's a different kind of powerful. Where others shadow you into a corner and dictate your value, she flips a switch that dials your output beyond its natural capacity. Your step quickens, your pulse does too, as just the thought of the sweet smell of her skin touching yours, breaks your pace to a gentle run.

You glance at your phone as you take the first few stairs to your building and your heart sinks to see no follow up text from Cosima. Should you send one? She was mortified by your exit. You could see it. And it is not that you didn't want to stay, to kiss her back. You panicked. What can you say? "I'm sorry I'm afraid of wanting this?", "I'm afraid Leekie will loose his mind over me wanting this?", "I think Leekie is rooting for this", "Please forgive me for not knowing how to DO this?", "Dr. Cosima, please teach me this?" All of these are what you want her to know, need her to know, and simply cannot tell her. Not yet.

So when you strip down, wash up, cradle yourself into your favorite pajamas and dive into a pile of blankets you finally forgive your school girl panic, release your tense muscles, and let your face relax into a smile as you finally enjoy the sinking feeling of accomplishment. Of simply making contact. Of achieving genuine connection. Of admitting that she's got you hooked. And you like it.

Yes, yes, yes. It is your JOB to hook Cosima. To track her. To observe her. To protect her. To begrudgingly report back. Yes for the science. Yes for the wonder. Yes for your potential as a scientist. Cosima is your curiosity personified. The simple fact that understanding her DNA, and her very existence, may very well save lives propels you forward and makes this somewhat convoluted "arrangement" acceptable to you. But it cannot change the simple truth that despite the science, Cosima is living magic. Living magic with a sweet touch and the most intoxicating mind.

That said, realizing that the proposed relationship between you, both professional AND potentially intimate, has the power to be reciprocated is as unexpected as it is thrilling. You never wanted to be tracked, observed, and or protected by a potential lover before. You exist unattached and you appreciate controlling just how much you give and when. You're grateful the DYAD could give two hoots about your menstrual cycle, the percentage of protein in your urine, or the complexities of your hormone profile, but you're happy to otherwise let Cosima study you in painstaking detail with the microscope of her unyielding focus. In fact, you have never felt so beautiful as when baring the weight of Cosima's prowling gaze. She eyes you, soft, but specific, as if you are the most wonderful and curious collection of molecules ever to saunter this fragile Earth.

When you lift your phone to set an alarm for morning a text from Leekie interrupts.

"MSP to YYZ Tomorrow. Hospital entrance. 10:00 AM. Town car. Urgent."

"Noted" you reply. A simple affirmation. Then a streak of panic. You text again.

"Is everything okay?"

The six breaths you take between your second message and his reply ebb and flow from your rib cage at an excruciating slow pace. Finally, the phone buzzes in your shaky hands.

"Is 324B21with you?"

"No. I just returned to my flat. Cosima is home."

"Will discuss more tomorrow. Be discrete."

"Always."

The calm you found in the safety of your bed seeps from your body as quickly as Cosima's warmth had seeped in just an hour before. You find your hand pressed to your lips, perhaps trying to claw her touch back to the surface, hoping the memory of her mouth could ease your anxious heart. You consider calling Aldous and demanding he explain his cryptic message immediately, but that would only end with you in his hotel demanding answers in exchange for some kind of physical barter. The thought of it makes your stomach physically heave. You consider calling Cosima, running back to her flat and staying the way you wanted to. Kissing her. Everywhere. You consider many things but each leads to the same end. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you will see him off, get new marching orders and carry on. Urgent or not. He got what he wanted, thus far. Cosima is considering his offer. You are considering Cosima and more importantly he's getting on a plane.


	11. Chapter 11

Riding In Cars With Boys

I'm going to try to finish Season 1 this weekend. Work is going to get crazy! But, worry not. I'm in this for the long haul. Even if it takes all hiatus to catch up through season 3. Thank you for the kind reviews guys. Sincerely, I love it. Besides we're dangerously, or should I say deliciously, close to eskimo pie.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"**_ _ **In that moment it is more than clear to you that you cannot and will not do anything to endanger Cosima. You can't. You won't. Yes, you're in too deep, but your conscience is non-negotiable."**_

* * *

In the brutal morning you barely throw on the same clothes you wore last night, and brush the red wine memory from your teeth before and make your way to the hospital with very little time to spare. Aldous, master of the reminder text, bombards you with threats, urging your timeliness, discretion, and demanding that you be fully present with a clear mind. You wonder if he trailed YOU last night. Does he know that you're horribly hung over? Can he tell that the only thing playing in your mind, as if on a tortuous loop, is the softening look on Cosima's face as her lips crashed delicately into your own…

As you exit the main entry of the hospital, you check the time. The town car arrives with precision. The door swings open. You step in and sit.

Barely looking up from the huge folio in his lap Aldous asks calmly, "Where are you with Cosima?" and you can't help but wonder why on earth there was such urgency for such a vapid question. If you had something to tell him, you would have. Furthermore he could have made such a request via telephone.

"Closer," you smile cockily, knowing very well that you'll be closer yet by end of day. The sooner you can get out of this car, the sooner you can bid Aldous adieu from Minnesota for a while. His silence demands proof. You continue, "she made a pass at me Aldous".

You choose your words carefully. Cosima made "a pass" at you the first time you met in the hall. She handed you your faux transcript and her eyes twinkled. Her fingers lingered too long near yours and your eyes locked too awkwardly. Cosima made "a pass" at you when she sat on the edge of the table in the library stacks and let her legs, wrapped in lace tights, swing in front of you like candy on a string. Cosima made "a pass" at you when she grabbed your hand at the Neolution talk, when she pulled you close in the court yard, when she answered the door in just a slinky black slip with a plunging neckline, when she walked with her arm hooked tightly in her own, when she tucked her head to your shoulder, when she invited you up to her flat last night.

Cosima's intentions have never been subtle or mixed. A kiss shared on a third glass of wine late into an evening that should have turned into a morning is not "a pass". It is an invitation, loaded with intention. Your mother always said that a man that kisses you already knows that he wants to sleep with you and you don't see how a woman is really all that different. Last night Cosima tried to take you to bed and you fled. Today you'll correct that mistake, but Aldous doesn't need to know that, at all.

"Really?" he preens, curling his leather clad arm around your jaw and around to the side of your face. You feel trapped, but know this meeting cannot linger long. The driver can hear everything you're saying and the car isn't even parked.

The scent of his jacket is upsetting to your already delicate stomach. You haven't eaten yet and the acid from the previous evening is unsettling at best. Your breath quickens for all the wrong reasons. His grip tightens, pulling your forehead to his. His fingers extend and start to stroke your cheek.

"Cosima's safety is at stake. Other subjects too. I need to know which ones she's in contact with," he coos as if he's tucking you in at night. He talks to you like you're a baby and it makes your blood seethe.

Furthermore, it is impossible to ignore how enormous his hand feels. After feeling Cosima's palms on your body, on your cheeks, the scale of his features, his fingers, feel monstrous, oppressive and harsh. Her lips were so soft, her finger tips…

"But she has to initiate disclosure," you insist, trying to retract your face from his grasp but the pressure he holds you with is firm, though gentle. In that moment it is more than clear to you that you cannot and will not do anything to endanger Cosima. You can't. You won't. Yes, you're in too deep, but your conscience is non-negotiable.

"I'm not saying disclose, this is a direct threat so I need you to dig deeper, faster".

With that, he releases your jaw, leans over your lap, opens the door and resumes whatever work he had staged in his enormous portfolio on his lap.

You slam the door in frustration and watch the town car pull away. Salt and ice crystals cluster on your boots and you're keenly aware of the disaster you've made of this situation. Monitoring a LEDA subject was supposed to be easy, exciting, if not fun. You were just thrilled to return to an academic environment and be free of the pressure of the DYAD labs. For you, working with Dr. Leekie was "an opportunity of a lifetime" indeed. You are privy to the most exciting research in modern medicine, but you never in a million years could anticipate what "tracking a genetic identical" could actually mean for you, personally. For you, Dr. Delphine Cormier, immunologist with a passion for cracking codes, for breaking host parasite codependence and thus a curator of biological independence, for Dr. Delphine Cormier who suddenly finds herself as attached to and protective of her subject as any child is of their first puppy. It is juvenile, unprofessional, emotional, non-scientific and still horrifically true.

What if Cosima is in danger? The thought of it swells like a tidal wave in your lower body. Your stomach lurches and you finally break focus from the street between your feet. The lights of the town car turn from the lot and you see the back of the car recede into the distance heading for the airport.

"Direct threat" he said. There's a "direct threat." What does that mean? Why does he speak in cryptic half-truths? Why can't you crack his code? Could he even be bluffing just to speed you into bring her back to Toronto sooner? Could something in her biological composition be causing an internal threat? Internal threat is not direct threat. Direct threat is an outside force? Force of WHAT? In Minnesota? His threats are hollow you decide. They must be. It's a power play on his part to get you both back to DYAD quickly. He wants you to follow him back, with Cosima in tow. He's scared the crap out of you so that you'll seduce her and deliver his prize. That son of a bitch.

First. Coffee. Then water. Then shower. Perhaps tea. Then toast?

Then her.


	12. Chapter 12

Swim.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"...you want to fast forward through this unknowing, because in this moment you crave nothing more than to be completely laid bare before her and known."**_

* * *

The determination in your walk back to your humble grad flat is impressive, even to you and your hangover. You pick up a tea on the way and strategize the morning. Cosima will presumably follow her morning ritual, if not at a bit of a delay. Morning work out, tea, study, lunch, lab. Unless of course she's perhaps a little hung over too. Maybe she'll skip the gym? Maybe you should go to the gym, actually, you think, wondering if she'd be horrified to see you appear at the Fit Rec on the elliptical beside her? Yea no, that's a terrible idea.

Instead you take yourself directly back to your flat and finally put a button on the last 24 hours by peeling off the maroon pants that matched Cosima's beaded tank the night before. Once in the shower you anxiously scrub, shave, condition and cream with haste. The sooner you're presentable, the sooner you can get what Aldous wants and finally get to what you want. You want her. You want her to yourself. You want uninhibited Cosima. You want her to finally meet you, you without an agenda. You without Aldous whispering instructions. You meeting her lips. You. You don't know how it is going to play out, but you feel oddly calm about making something happen. This is right. It feels right. You're as drawn to Cosima as you are standing naked on a towel imagining her tiny hands touching your skin as you drag your own fingers across the planes of your stomach and hips. Just the thought of it makes your breath hitch and your skin flush. You should just focus on getting dressed.

Does it count as primping if it involves no make up and unassuming casual clothes? Unassuming casual clothes that you take off, change, throw on the ground, rip over your head, add to the pile, near seventy times? You can't wear the cream chords again, she saw you in them the other day. Jeans? Too cliché. Tank? Too cold. Boots. Yes. Red mini. Okay. Only if you have dark tights. Favorite V neck sweater. Yes. Still clean. Excellent. Same belt as yesterday? So what. You like it. Merde. No clean tights. You pull the dirty ones from the laundry. Nope. They do not pass the sniff test. Moving on. Jesus.

How long did you spend fussing in your damn closet? Cosima is surely through the gym, tea and study phase of her day and catching her before her lab hours is essential. You hang upside down long enough to blow out your hair just enough to keep it from freezing once you get outside. You check your phone, no texts, you pack your bag with DYAD materials, a Luna Bar and your favorite gloves. You check your face before leaving. You look tired. You should put on some make up. At least under your eyes. Blasted hangover. Wine. Ugh. No. If she's going to want you, she's going to have to want the real you, not manufactured sidecar you. Not all dressed up in the middle of the day, you. Not what your mother would demand you be, you. Just you. Nerdy. Anxious. Covered in freckles. Exhausted and nervous. Excited and feisty as all hell. Crossing campus sans tights on the way to change your life.

Jody at the Tea Lounge confirmed that Cosima was in to pick up her midday Chai about twenty minutes prior, which could go either way. Either she's home in the turret of her tiny little castle apartment, or she's already with Scott for the later part of the afternoon. You take out your phone to text her, but seriously, what would you say? "Hi Cosima, it's Delphine can I come up for a do over?", "Hey Cos, it's Del. I know I don't call you that and you don't call me that, but can you invite me over?", "Um, can we make out?" You hit the top button without sending anything and return your phone to the lock screen. It's a photograph of your old street in Paris. You really need to change it, you think. You need to start living in the now.

When you reach Cosima's building someone is walking out as you approach. The young man politely holds the door for you and you eagerly scamper up the stairs to accept his chivalrous offer. Your thighs ARE bloody cold, but you don't care. Taking the time to change again wasn't an option and this way you can actually surprise her, that is if she's actually home.

You stand outside the apartment door itself and listen for a moment. The faint sound of music hums through the seams and you can hear her soft footfalls pace around the space for a minute before your lift your arm to wrap a knuckle on the wood. You hold your breath for a second and try to compose an opening line. You freeze. Why? If not to undo what you did, why ARE you here? What can you offer? Before you can answer your hand taps rhythmically in front of you and in a matter of seconds Cosima's astonished face greets you, and immediately pales "Hey? Delphine?" Her smile is broad and sincere and you are so relieved that she's happy to see you after you were such a child last night.

"I.. I hope I'm not disturbing you," you stammer awkwardly as she backs up, clearing a path for you to enter the room.

"Oh no no no," she insists, "No. Impossible." She pauses before, "So apparently I've got this thing for like um jumping to conclusions…"

Her hands swirl around her words like the rings of Saturn. Barefoot, and oh so tiny next to you in your heeled boots, Cosima's a wizard in a long cloak of a sweater, despite the teeny structured tank top beneath that reveals her taught stomach and perfect hourglass figure.

"It's just that I've never…" you attempt to speak grounding your shaky hands deep into your pockets, but she presses on, defensive, apologetic, adorable and clumsy.

"I know, I know," she interrupts and your head nods to her assumption, or so she thinks, or were you just nodding to the indecision in your head, searching desperately for intelligent words to finish your sentence. Might you have said, "It's just that you've never kissed a woman before?" or "You've never wanted to kiss a women before?" or "You've never come back to kiss a woman before?" But no, you said none of those things. Speaking of kissing, should you press on to the kissing first or spying first? This is infuriating. If only you could just ask her which other subjects she knows, get what Aldous wants, and get on with it.

Cosima's words snap you back to her focus, back out of your combustible head. "I know, you're not you're not gay and I'm a total idiot. So sorry."

She's so far from an idiot it is ridiculous. Her eyes shine. Her nervous steps still and your hands instinctively move to the buttons of your coat so that you can start to undress. It is almost animalistic how much you want to touch her, how much you want her mouth on your skin. How much you want to kiss her neck, her face, the space between the colorful pattern of her top and the waist of her pants. How much you want to fast forward through this unknowing, because in this moment you crave nothing more than to be completely laid bare before her and known.

"Oh let me," she says taking your coat from your shoulders.

"Oh yes" you reply, appreciative.

"Do you?" she asks. Do I what?, you think, waiting for her to finish the thought. But she doesn't. "I just want to make like uh crazy science with you," she says. And the phrase makes you giggle and blush. Crazy science. Yes. The kind where brains and chemistry and skin explode. "Totally crazy science." She offers the idea like a promise you cannot wait to keep.

Finding your breath, you choose spy games over girl games. You desperately want to get it over with and frankly it's easier than your other agenda to address.

"I'm so glad to hear that, because you know what, I was reading up on the DYAD Institute and did you know that Dr. Leekie…"

The science chatter is easy. She lights up like Christmas and you compare notes. The banter of exchange feels effortless. You both calm down. Your breathing settles. Her pacing settles. You stand side by side at her desk and though the physical attraction between you is palpable, you no longer feel like you might fall over. In fact, you're so grateful for Cosima. For this moment and you quickly abandon your task. The words fall quickly, without your authority. For the first time in your life your heart speaks ahead of your mind.

"It's really, really good to finally meet someone who gets it, who gets me."

Cosima is caught off guard by your confession, if only because she could easily say the same, "Yea well, obvs," she smiles, eyes wide as saucers, before the moment grows too vulnerable and she turns back to the journal you handed her before.

Your eyes close at the invasion of the memory, "I can't stop thinking about that kiss" you continue, biting your lip, hoping it might suggest that she try again. But instead she takes the intellectual response and you laugh at the reality that last time things were this close between you there were almost two bottles of wine involved.

"Like in a not bad way," Cosima asks, her voice hopeful, thought small, adorably sincere.

"Oh like I've never thought about bisexuality. I mean for myself you know," which is perhaps what you were trying to say before. Because, no, you're not 'gay' in that you only ever imagined you could be happy in the arms of another woman, but you continue, "As a scientist I know that sexuality is a, is a spectrum but you know social biases they, they codify attraction, its contrary to the biological facts." The words stumble and stutter out of your mouth lacking grace or any seductive promise, but she hears them open-hearted and full of want.

"Yea, that's oddly romantic and totally encouraging," she says, with a challenge thrown and a tiny step towards you, her eyes shifting again from your mouth to your body to your mouth. She's not going to move this time. She almost demands you take the lead with her eyes. The want is not the problem. The problem is the how. You reach for her face with your hand and make contact first with her warm cheek. Your thumb easily smoothes over her lips and their impossible softness. Her breath retracts swiftly; you step towards her leaning down, and pulling her mouth to your own.

What was polite and sweet last night is now hungry, rich and raw. You feel her hands grasp your elbows, your teeth grab for her lip. Her tongue tastes like spiced Chai and honey in your mouth. She pulls at her own sleeves and bares her shoulders and her arms climb up around your neck. You can see her feet rise to her toes to stay with you and instinctively you cradle her back with the open palms of your hands. She leans into the desk behind her and you push back some books, or something, as you lay her down as gently as you can between the lava lamp and her lab notes. You feel her thighs wrap tightly around your waist and the heat of her body presses into your stomach from below. You gasp audibly. Your eyes snap to hers.

"Hey?" she asks, simply. Earnest. Pleading. "You sure?"

"Humm, mmm" is the best you can manage between hungry kisses and impatient hands.

"Then let's maybe go over…" she points her head and one of her hands over the half made bed on the other side of the apartment.

Embarrassed, and blushing, you laugh and agree, scooping her small frame up from the desk and crossing the room in just a few steps to lay her down in the center of the bed. She grabs for your shoulders pulling you up to meet her, "Come here" she says, flustered, turned on, and deliberate "come here."


	13. Chapter 13

Pie.

Finally. We're here. Happy Labor Day! Lucky Chapter 13. Someone should get lucky, for real.

Orphan Black characters, plot points and details not mine. Self-edited work. Please forgive what I don't catch, and if the spirit so moves you to do so, I look forward to reading your comments. Thank you!

* * *

 _ **"You want to know if you're embarrassing yourself, if she's having as much fun as you are if you don't totally suck at this…"**_

* * *

The landscape of Cosima's body rolls in tactile waves. The architecture of her spine, the cavern of her mouth, the very material of her skin on your tongue, each offers wonder upon wonder to your insatiable curiosity. You read her as quickly as you can, impatiently so, the geometry of her curves you can see, the Braille of her freckles under your fingertips you can feel and the texture of her hips rocking in your hands. You're amazed by how organically the puzzle of your bodies assemble and disassemble again and again. You never thought touch could be so playful, so thoughtful, so genuinely in tune. She plays you like a cello, her soft palms holding your muscles taught and then slack and then she bows legato lush lines that heave and sigh, resonant, round, warm.

She lets you wonder the garden barefoot. Like a child seeing the world in color for the first time. Too shy to ask questions. Too green to make choices. She tutors without condescension, her assessments effortless and joyful. When you break your kiss to remove her glasses she bows her head with reverence. You kiss each of her eyelids before placing her frames on the table beside the bed. She lays back into a large pillow, the periodic table above her head that falls somewhere between Uranium and Plutonium.

"You okay?" she says, pulling your hand to her thumping chest.

You nod silently, biting your lip, draping your knees over her legs so that you're straddling her lap. You wonder if her prescription is enough that she cannot see the tension in your jaw, the worry in your brow, or the utter panic on your lips as you sit back on her thighs, your skirt and belt pushed up around your waist, not trusting that you don't weigh enough to hurt her, though you suspect saying so would warrant a playful slap. But before you can articulate a word to that point, Cosima casually lifts her tank over her head revealing a colorful black lace trimmed bra and her ample cleavage just inches from your eyes. She peels your sweater up over your head and discards it. The cold air makes your skin prickle, your nipples harden under your barely there lace bra. Seeing her wrapped in colors and black lace you regret not selecting a braver set of under things yourself. In fact, you laugh a little at your own haste this morning. No tights. Your least impressive lingerie. She must think you're some kind of hack.

But before you could get too lost in self deprecation you feel a single finger trace a line from your lips to your chin, down your neck, to your shoulder, to your collar bone and down right between your breasts, under and around one, and then the up over the other, then down your side to your quivering navel. She undoes your belt, unbuttons your skirt, and you reach your arms up over your head so she can pull both over your shoulders in one motion. The air is sucked out of your lungs and you can't help but sit back a little. You can feel the tension in your lower body escalate as her hands come back to rest on your near bare hips. Her fingers slide into the back of your almost translucent knickers, as her thumbs press circles into your hip sockets, her long fingers digging into your muscles with such grace.

"Delphine" she says, in almost a whisper, her hands suddenly still, "I think you might be the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

You collapse into her mouth as if you could try to swallow her whole. Her fingers immediately find purchase in the erratic curls on the back of your head. And you're relieved because one more minute of that hip massage and you might have died right then and there. This is a deep and unsettling kiss, the kind that turns into whimpers and the little cries that overstimulation inspires. You cannot process language. Not English, not French. Just gratitude, wonder and want.

Cosima quickly removes her own pants so that you're both down to bras and panties before she lifts her own breast from behind the cup of her bra and lets her arms drape around your neck. The weight of her hands pulls you down such that your mouth cradles her exposed nipple easily. She tastes like sugar, earth and sweat. Her fingers pull rivers up your back, over your shoulders, through your hair and back again, your teeth and tongue spin her gift in your mouth. Cosima's back arches closer to you. Your arms wrap closely around her body and the scale of her almost makes you cry. She's so compact, so muscular, so agile and so strong. Yet the incredible softness of her absolutely destroys everything you've ever thought about sensuality, about desire and fuck.

She lays you on your side and weaves your legs so that her thigh presses into the wet center of your knickers and you feel her damp underwear press into yours. Your hips meet and sway in an easy rocking rhythm. You both grind down into the muscular legs beneath you, arms grabbing hair, teeth biting skin, breath ragged, wet, loud. You feel like you can't breathe, like you might have a seizure, like something horrible could happen at any moment. But every part of your body tingles…

You try to make eye contact again and she realizes why you're panicking. But really you're just wondering if it would be okay to take her bra all the way off? Like is there some kind of rule about that? But you're too shy to ask so instead you just kiss your way from her ear to her collarbones, then from one nipple to the other and linger long and hard in the valley of her cleavage, where you press your whole face to her sternum, her hands firm on your back, you stop and breathe her in and feel the hard thrum of her heartbeat on your tongue.

"You are incredible Cosima", you say to the space between her chin and her chest, "I don't ever want to stop touching you."

"Then don't," she says cheekily as you both laugh and she pushes you back so that you're laying under the noble gases and you're curious how exactly things go from here. You're both flush and every time your start kissing again it doesn't take long to find that you're both short of breath. But you don't know what to do. You want to ask for a cue sheet, or methodology to follow. You want to know if you're embarrassing yourself, if she's having as much fun as you are if you don't totally suck at this…

You feel her tongue first. While you were trying to figure out if you were failing girl sex 101, Cosima settled onto her stomach and started painting daisy chains on your inner thigh with her tongue. She uses her elbows to push your knees back towards your shoulders, never once releasing your eyes from her own. Your head feels heavy. You can smell the pungent sting of sex in the room and your fingers instinctively find their way to her cheeks, her face, her shoulders, her hands. You grab her hands as she slides her nose over the silk lace separating her from your sex. Your fingers clench around hers as your back pushes you forward, arching your body to her open mouth.

Cosima inhales deeply, as if in prayer, and presses herself into your sex with a smile. She bites ever so sweetly over the fabric, the texture of which tickles you in a way you've never experienced. Her tongue pushes and pulls your clit around the seams in the material and each touch amplifies the last. You have to force your knees to stay locked into the bed beneath you. They want to pull her into you, press her into you, they want, you want, her, inside of you. Now.

"Cosima," her name falls from your lips unexpectedly and her eyes snap to your unsteady breath, your unsteady gaze. "Cosima please, I.. I…please, I..." She releases one of your hands and you immediately curl it around the back of her head. Impulsively you press her to your body and she uses her free fingers to slide the silk barrier aside and press her tongue, her nose, her teeth, her chin, directly into your flesh. Your hips rock quickly and erratically. She holds on, curls her tongue though layers of your secrets, pulling it back up and over your swollen truth, spinning your doubt on her teeth, wrapping your longing with her trusting smile. Then with the gentlest touch imaginable she slides two fingers under her chin and presses them deeply into your expanding body. As she rocks in and out of you, pressing behind her hand with her own hips, your ankles cross behind her pulling her in even deeper. Each thrust takes any remaining fear from the very center of your being and scatters it to the wind. In this moment you are completely laid bare before her and the tremors that surface rumble profoundly, wholly and deep.

As your body rattles itself back to stillness, Cosima curls into a tiny ball beside you. Her warm arms wrap tightly around your shaky middle, her dewy head resting on your chest. You see her smile rise and fall with your erratic breathing as she traces absent-minded circles on your quivering stomach. There is so much you want to tell her. So many questions. So many ways to express gratitude for which you find no words. She wraps your hand with her own and threads your fingers together sweetly. No words could possibly frame the sensation of being seen, so completely seen, by someone so utterly beautiful such that the poets are rendered speechless, the musicians silent and the scientist can do little but weep.


End file.
